Inspiration
by fandomsruinedmylife17
Summary: noun: the process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something, especially to do something creative. HIGH SCHOOL AU. Clary Fray isn't special, she doesn't think. She's every other teenage girl. She likes art. She has red hair and green eyes and likes Star Wars. She has boy trouble, she argues with her mom and brother, she hangs out with her best friend Simon. Then she meet
Every Math and English and Science class she sits two rows behind him and one seat along. He joined class at the start of term. Him and his two friends. She hears that they're his brother and sister. She can't see it. Maybe he's adopted. He's got golden blonde hair and golden eyes. His name is Jace Herondale, but he insists on being called Lightwood. Alec and Isabelle Lightwood, his two friends. Black hair, tall and blue eyes. She'd never actually spoken to them. She spent most of her time staring at the back of his head. He didn't know she existed. He was on the sports team. He knew languages. He was good at history and literature. She did art and sat on the bleachers and went to Simon's bands gigs in the coffee shop. She would tell him Millennium Lint wasn't a good name for a band. He'd scoff. Later they'd have a new name.

A sharp pain it her shoulder and she flinches out of her thoughts. "She turns to look at Simon sat next to her. "You were doing it again." They'd been back at school three weeks now. They were High School Juniors. She'd known Simon since the seventh grade. All big brown eyes and brown hair and glasses to big for his face. He'd grown into them. They'd been best friends since. Even her mom loved him. She was hard to please. Luke, her step-father, loved him too. He was more like her dad. It was like he was Simon's dad too, since his own had died.

"I was not." She mumbles back. She has her sketch book out, even though it's a history class. Mr. Starkweather could drone on and on for hours about World War 2 or whatever revolution she hadn't been paying attention to. Her grades were pretty good already, her parents probably wouldn't pressure her if she slipped up a couple of times. She hoped. "It's not like half the guys in this class aren't drooling over Isabelle. Or half the girls." Simon raises his eyebrows. "What? I can tell when a girl is hot." She rolls her eyes. Simon passes her some notes to copy down on the Belgian Revolution of 1831. "How long till this ends?"

Simon checks his watch. "Five minutes."

She sighs, "Five minutes till black coffee and a weekend. Thank God." Black coffee was probably the only reason she'd kept up with her assignments. 3AM caffeine fueled assignments. She puts her arms in front of her and rests her head on them. "Wake me up when this is over." He immediately pulls gently on her hair. She looks up and sees people packing away. "Oh good." She mutters.

"Remember it's Eric's poetry recital tonight."

"Oh bad." she says, her eyes a little wider. "Have you told him he sucks?"

"He sucks. He really sucks." Clary groans, "If I hear the words 'turgid is my torment' one more time, I swear, I will scream."

"I know." He sighs, "How about Dichotomous Lemur?"

"No. I thought you were changing it to Dangerous Stain."

"We did. We're changing it again." He crosses another name off the list. "I mean at least we have Kirk on vocals and not Eric. You're coming to next Saturday's gig at the Alto bar, right?"

"Simon, have I ever not gone to one of your gigs?" She smirks, "Three o'clock, cute girl. Why don't you ask her out?"

"Nah, it wouldn't be right." Clary raised her eyebrows, "I don't know them, I don't like them. Besides I like someone else. Anyway."

"Coffee?" She asks. She'd pry, but her instincts say not to. She'd have plenty of time tomorrow. Plus, if he'd wanted to continue on the topic, he would. He nods. She gets up to go to the counter. When she looks back his face is a little red. She asks for one black coffee and another with milk and two sugars. Eric is still rambling his poetry. Maybe they should've just grabbed a Starbucks. She waits in the queue to collect their drinks. "Thanks," she mumbles politely as the barrista hands her two coffees. She's concentrating on not spilling the coffees, though they're lidded, so hard she isn't watching ahead. So much that she doesn't know how to react when she bumps into something, feeling the burning coffee on her skin and clothes.


End file.
